


All Over Again

by WintersLonging (LivingSilver)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Self Loathing, rated M for alcohol and cigarettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingSilver/pseuds/WintersLonging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What had started out as a crush had grown into some kind of sick obsession. At first it was the tilt of his lips, then line of his shoulders, then the angle of his jaw, and then the blue of his eyes. But not just the blue of his eyes. It was the blue of his eyes when he looked at her. The shine that grew there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so this is also posted on the blog I just made that is going to be dedicated to my Bucky/Reader stuff, I'll still post stuff here too, and also accepting NSFW Bucky/Reader prompts. Go check it out. Send me things at jamesfckmebarnes.tumblr.com

The night is dark around you. Slow burn of alcohol spreading through your chest, numbing your senses. Smoke curling in long grey tendrils from your lips.

You are filled with self-loathing, self-pity. It consumes you. You hate yourself for being like this. For letting this control you. For letting him control you.

What had started out as a crush had grown into some kind of sick obsession. At first it was the tilt of his lips, then line of his shoulders, then the angle of his jaw, and then the blue of his eyes. But not just the blue of his eyes. It was the blue of his eyes when he looked at her. The shine that grew there.

And then you knew this wasn’t a crush. You had fallen. Because suddenly, you never wanted anything more than for him to look at you like that. To smile at you that radiant smile he gives her. To laugh with you that easy way they laugh together. Heads thrown back, teeth gleaming with the joy of each other’s presence.

They were obviously in love. Even if they didn’t realize it. Even if they claimed to just be friends. Sooner or later it would be more, if it wasn’t already. And the thought is so arresting, so painful, the sight of them together is too much.

So first you started avoiding the kitchen at mealtimes. Then you changed your training and workout schedule. Working out in the dead of night so you don’t have to witness the way their bodies dance around and against each other as they spar. Then you start making excuses so you don’t have to hang out with the team.

_I don’t feel well._

_I’m tired._

One after another until you are blissfully alone in your isolation. You notice their worried exchange of glances as you become more and more distant. It hurts. But it doesn’t hurt as much as seeing Bucky and Natasha together. Knowing that you could never make him happy the way she does.

Of course it is a communal tower, so you can’t avoid everyone all the time. The times you happen to run into Bucky, you’re always civil. You exchange small talk. You pretend to be okay. You try not to stare. But you’re torn between not wanting to give yourself away and wanting to savor every second he’s in your presence.

Upon seeing the bond he and Natasha had formed, you immediately decided that you would never tell him, you would never tell anyone, he would never know. You somehow always managed to be second best. It’s clear. This time isn’t going to be any different. Past experience making a fool out of yourself has taught you to never show your cards.

The door to the rooftop opens disturbing your inner tumultuous reflection. Your heart drops. It’s Bucky. Being around him is a painful reminder of what you can never have.

He spots you in your little corner of the rooftop, sitting against some kind of air duct. He calls your name as he approaches.

“Hey, Bucky,” you call back, forcing your voice to be light, grateful the bottle of vodka is hidden on your other side.

Bucky sits next you, long legs stretching out in front of him.

“What’re you doing up here? You’re missing movie night.” Bucky says friendly enough but you feel the questioning search in his gaze.

“I just wanted some air,” you say dismissively, refusing to look at him, pretending to be occupied with the stars.

“Why don’t you come down?”

The image of Bucky and Natasha slotting their bodies’ comfortably together side by side on the couch like they always do burns into your mind.

“I’m pretty tired actually. Probably going to bed soon.” You lie expertly, letting some of the lightness drop from your voice.

“Yeah, you’re _tired_ a lot lately. What’s going on with you?” Bucky asks softly.

You take a drag off your cigarette, shrugging.

“I’m just tired.”

Silence hangs between you. You haven’t looked over so you can’t read Bucky’s face.

“You’re just tired?” Bucky asks unconvinced.

“I’m just tired.” You repeat again coolly, keeping any annoyance out of your voice.

Bucky scoffs.

“Come on, something’s wrong.” He presses lightly.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve been avoiding everyone.”

_No, just avoiding you._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You deflect, still gazing forward, but you catch the tensing of muscles in the back of his hand out of your periphery.

_Here we go._

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.”

Idly, you wonder why he’s even pushing. You hang out because you’re on the team and the team hangs out together. You’ve worked together on missions because the team does missions together. You’ve sparred occasionally. But you’ve done everything possible to keep an actual friendship from forming.

You let the silent exhale of cigarette smoke speak for you.

“Just look me in the eye and tell me you’re okay.” Bucky says accepting that he’s not getting anything out of you right now.

_I can’t. I can’t look at you._

Turning your head, he’s closer than you realized.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you say, voice neutral, adding a small smile to sell it.

He almost buys it, you see relief flick across his features before his brows knit together.

“Is that alcohol on your breath? You sit up here drinking alone in the dark and you’re going to tell me you’re okay?” He says accusingly.

You look away, huffing out smoke.

“Go away, Bucky,” your voice suddenly cold now that the game is over.

“Why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?” Bucky questions, disappointment evident in his voice.

You sigh deeply, a mixture of exhaustion and defeat. You just want to be alone.

“Bucky, please, don’t make me,” a fraction of the pain you’re feeling slips into your voice, as you turn to face him again.

Something about your broken expression or the slump of your shoulders gives him pause.

“Fine,” he relents. “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving you up here to drink alone. Pass that bottle over.”

Resignedly, you pull the bottle of vodka out its hiding place and pass it to him. You think about protesting, but Bucky’s so beautiful bathed in moonlight and all yours just for tonight.

He takes a swig, passing it back to you, and you mimic his action before setting the bottle between you.

Your shoulders touch as Bucky relaxes next to you. You will yourself not to flinch away. The warmth of him burns through your skin and you try to numb yourself to how good it feels.

“Can I have a drag?”

You pass him the cigarette, fingers caressing yours as he takes it, tracking every movement intently as he fits it in between his perfectly shaped lips. He takes a long drag, nonchalantly exhaling the smoke in a way that has warmth settling in between your thighs. He passes it back and you try to keep your hand from shaking as you take it back.

 Bucky starts to fill you in on everything you’ve missed. From the chaotic debate over the movie night selection to Darcy and Thor’s fight over pop tarts. You continue to pass vodka and cigarettes and conversation between each other for the next hour or two. The vodka causing you to drop your guard more than you would like as you laugh carelessly at Bucky’s stories, leaning into him because you can’t help yourself. You’re going to take whatever contact you can get. The last thing you remember is pushing Bucky away as you make numerous, unsuccessful attempts to stand and you lay on your back laughing up at the stars.

Sleep is pulled slowly from you like a heavy blanket. Dimly, you’re aware of heat. So warm surrounding your body. Warm and firm? Your comforter is definitely not that heavy. You look down to discover in horror a very masculine arm thrown over your waist. You’re fully clothed so that’s something. The horror grows as you rotate your neck to the side and catch sight of Bucky sleeping soundly. Abruptly you sit up, causing the room to spin as your massive hangover makes its presence known, his heavy arm sliding off of you and he’s awakened by the movement.

“Hey,” he says his voice rough from sleep.

“What are you doing here?” You demand calmly, trying to piece together last night.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Being on the roof.”

“You were wasted. I had to carry you to your room.” Bucky explains, pausing hesitantly. “And then when I laid you down on the bed, you started crying. And you wouldn’t stop, you wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, you just kept crying and mumbling something about Natasha. And I didn’t want to leave you like that, so I just kind of stayed.”

The cold chill of humiliation runs down your spine. This definitely falls into worst nightmare scenarios. At least from his recounting it doesn’t sound like you went as far as to drunkenly confess your feelings. But you still exposed him to how vulnerable you can be.

“Get out.” You say softly.

Bucky doesn’t move. Instead he props himself up on his cybernetic elbow.

“Why were you crying?” He asks gently.

Vaguely, you remember now, soaking his shirt with your tears.

“Get. Out.” Your voice brooking no room for argument this time. You don’t even look at him.

_I can’t._

Bucky sighs, exasperatedly throwing the covers off of him. He’s still fully clothed as well.

 He picks his shoes up off the floor, and stops to look at you as he crosses in front of the foot of the bed. You can only imagine how awful you look. Bucky’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes gleam darkly, mouth set firmly. You glare back.

Bucky strides out, shutting the door resolutely. The dull echo resonating in the silence of early morning as you smother the part of your conscience telling you you’ve made a mistake.

 


	2. Intervention

After Bucky leaves, you get out of bed, you retch over the toilet before undressing and getting into the shower, vaguely wondering if it’s the hangover or the massive amount of guilt you’re trying to suppress that makes you nauseous. You shower quickly, throwing on your most worn oversized sleep shirt afterwards, savoring the soft comfort of the cotton.

You dig your Tylenol out of your nightstand, taking the pills detachedly, chasing them with the ginger ale you keep in a mini fridge for hangovers like this, and settle for a few saltine crackers even though pancakes are your go to hangover food, but there is no way in actual hell you’re going to the kitchen right now; the prospect of facing Bucky or anyone else for that matter too daunting to face.

You slide into bed. The sheets smell like Bucky. So you cry yourself to sleep hoping your tears will wash the scent of him away.

You wake up several hours later from dreams of Bucky somewhere in between afternoon and evening only because you’re starving. You’re going to have face the others at some point but you decide “some point” isn’t going to be today. You’re still slightly hung over because you haven’t eaten anything. Food is the priority, but the kitchen is not an option.

You haphazardly shrug into a pair of worn jeans, t-shirt, and favorite leather jacket. Quickly smoothing out your hair in the mirror and applying concealer under your eyes to prepare for your excursion into the land of the living.

Cautiously you open the door, just in case someone is waiting to spring some kind of intervention type situation on you but the hallway is deserted. You slip stealthily down the hall to the rarely used fire escape stairs.

When you get to your favorite coffee shop, you order two sandwiches and a plain coffee--you’re sleep schedule is already ruined, so why not?—choosing a secluded corner booth so you can devour your sandwiches in peace.

You check your phone. There’s nothing, no new messages or missed calls. You’re not sure if you should be relieved or worried. It’s too quiet. Like a calm before a storm. The storm arrives sooner than expected as Natasha slides into the booth across from you.

 “Natasha,” You greet her stiffly, annoyed that she had gone through the trouble of tailing you just to disturb your solitude.

The infamous Black Widow studies you carefully before responding.

“Barnes says he can’t get anything out of you,” Natasha says coolly.

“So what you’re here to _interrogate_ me?” You quip.

“Hardly, I’m just here to talk,” she replies neutrally.

Silence hangs heavy between you, because if she wants to talk then she’s going to have to do the talking.

“You should tell him,” she says quietly.

You can’t help but scoff.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deflect automatically.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Why are you being like this?” Natasha says lowly but the frustration is still evident in her voice.

It’s a good question. It is. But it’s not like you’re going to answer it. Like how do you even begin to explain you’re so fucked up from a series of bad relationships, from guys cheating on you, from guys using you to cheat, from guys you’ve fallen hard for just stringing you along so that no matter how you cut it, you’ve always been second and you’ve ended up here all strung out, hopeless, and afraid. Yes, deep down its fear. Because if you don’t tell him, then he can’t reject you, like you know he will because how could he not you think gazing at Natasha enviously.

“Fuck off, Natasha.” It’s out of your mouth before you can really process, pushed out past your lips by a string of angry thoughts.

“Excuse me,” she says clearly taken aback.

“How big of you, to set me up like that, when he’s obviously so in love with you,” you hiss venomously because you need more Tylenol and you were already emotionally compromised before Natasha came in and now everything you’ve tried to contain is threatening to spill over.

“I’m going to pretend that as your friend you really don’t think I would do something like that. And if you don’t tell him, then I will.”

“I’ll deny it.”

“He’s going to figure it out sooner or later.”

You shrug.

“You’re being childish,” Natasha admonishes.

Great something else to add to the self-loathing jar.

“You should tell him and get it over with. What do you have to lose? Either something good happens or it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t then you pick yourself up and keep going because I know you’re stronger than wasting your life away over some guy.”

You sigh heavily. Knowing she’s right. Knowing eventually you would be “okay”. But how long would eventually be? Weeks? Months? Dare you think it, _years_? Things have to fall before you can pick them up. And it’s going to take a damn long time to pick up yourself out of the hell you’ll fall into after Bucky breaks your heart. You’ve crawled out of other hells before, but this one will certainly be the deepest.

Natasha’s fragment of truth penetrates the labyrinth of lies your mind has created and you feel guilty for being so awful to her and cutting yourself off from everyone else and throwing Bucky out of your room.

“I’m sorry,” you confess softly.

Natasha gives you a small smile.

“It’s okay,” she says forgiving you and the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.


	3. Intention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this got so out of hand. Like at some points, it was honestly painful to write. I tried not to make it sappy, because I really can't stand sap. And like wow, I managed to write something that didn't end in smut. Good for me. Also smoking is bad, don't actually do it. 
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> Text that is both italicized and in quotes does not belong to me. They are lines taken from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. The order they appear in the story, is not true to how they appear in the poem.

After the coffee shop intervention, you cautiously integrate yourself back into a social atmosphere. You’re in the kitchen for breakfast the next morning when Steve comes in and gives you a small nod.

“It’s good to see you,” he says warmly.

A few other people come in. Bucky comes in. You and Bucky both immediately tense when you catch sight of each other, sharing a flat, uneasy expression for all of half a second and then proceeding to ignore each other. If Steve notices, he doesn’t say anything. You wonder if Bucky told him. Obviously he told Natasha about your little incident. You finish eating efficiently and leave.

A few days later, you have a sparring session with Sam, while Bucky lifts weights in the corner.

“Damn, girl, I really missed you kicking my ass,” Sam laughs getting up from the floor.

“You up for another round?” Bucky asks casually from somewhere behind you; your body freezes but your mind races.

You could easily say no, that you’re busy. That have something else to do. That you feel like you’ve pulled something and you shouldn’t exert yourself. But then he’ll know you’re specifically avoiding _him_. And besides landing a few hits might actually be a cathartic experience for the part of you that’s all pent up anger at what he’s unknowingly been putting you through.

“Sure,” you answer evenly, turning to face him.

You circle each other slowly, sizing each other up, until someone throws the first punch you’re not sure who, adrenaline causing you to only focus on the flurry of movement as you quickly exchange and block blows, neither of you managing to land anything. Bucky isn’t holding back because he knows you can take a hit, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The people you face in the real world don’t hold back, so why should a sparring session be any different. You manage to land a satisfying round house kick to that perfect jawline of his, but you’re a fraction of second too slow pulling away as Bucky catches your ankle, causing you to drop to the matted floor. You roll expertly out of the way and are back on your feet before he has a chance to pin you down.

You continue twisting and flipping out of Bucky’s reach, putting more and more effort behind your strikes. Distracted by the blue of his eyes and the curve of his lips as you let your frustration take over. But you’re starting tire from your previous session, so it isn’t long before his cybernetic fist makes contact with your ribs, knocking the air of out you, and he kicks you effortlessly into the padded wall behind you. You drop out of the way quickly as his flesh hand reaches for your throat, sweeping his legs out from under with a low kick and then you’re both rolling around on the floor until you don’t even realize he has you pinned and you’re still thrashing around desperate to get out of his grasp.

“Hey, hey!” Bucky says loudly, finally catching your attention causing you to go to still. And you really wish you hadn’t because now you’re all too aware of his enormous weight straddling your hips and both of your wrists trapped in the vice of his cybernetic hand as you exchange body heat and ragged breath.

The faintest hint of concern present in his eyes as he gazes down at you, faces only separated by inches. A moment of quiet hangs between you. Your eyes fall to Bucky’s lips, thinking for not the first time what those lips would feel like against yours. The concern in Bucky’s gaze changes to something else as the moments stretch on, but you don’t have time to examine it because he’s letting you go now that he sees you’re calm.

“Not bad,” he throws out quietly over his shoulder before walking away.

You stare after his retreating form, feeling more conflicted than ever. In the beginning you swore to never reveal your feelings, but since talking to Natasha you want nothing more than to get them out of you as quickly as possible, just so it can be done. Every moment spent in Bucky's presence, a flood of words welling up, ready to burst forth. 

You knock tentatively on Bucky’s door an absolute nervous wreck. It had taken you at least 10 times to make it this far. You’d make it to the elevator and then go back towards your room. And then once you managed to make it to his floor, you’d go back up in the elevator and then down again, like some kind of ridiculous farce. By the time you actually knock on the door it’s almost midnight.

_“And indeed there will be time_

_To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’_

_Time to turn back and descend the stair”_

You’re calculating if you have enough time to run away before he answers the door when the door cracks open. God, of course he’s shirtless, black sweatpants hung low on his hips. Like this isn’t the hardest thing you’ve already had to do.

“Oh, hey,” Bucky greets you somewhat indifferently.

“Uh, hey” you say, wetting your lips nervously, “so, I was going up to the roof. To smoke. And I don’t wanna smoke alone so um I didn’t know if you wanted to join me.” Your words come out in a rush, and your gaze mostly is glued to the floor. One second passes before you continue. “But I mean, no its okay, you probably don’t want to, okay, that’s fine. I’ll just go.” And as you’re whirling around on your heel, Bucky’s low voice stops you.

“No, s’okay, just give me a minute.” An under layer of fatigue present in his voice; a pang of remorse goes through you for probably waking him up or at least keeping him up at this point.

The door shuts. Flight instinct telling you this your chance to run for it, but reason roots you to the floor.

After what feels like an eternity the door reopens.

_“Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky”_

 Bucky wearing a grey t-shirt this time, and slip on sneakers. As you go up to the roof, you feel impossibly guilty. Bucky is probably have a perfectly normal night and you’re getting ready to ruin everything by dumping a bunch of emotional baggage on him. You don’t even notice the silence, too distracted by the noise in your head to make small talk.

“You know you actually got me pretty good, today.” He says rubbing his jaw.

“I think it’s fair to say you’re the one who got me pretty good,” you respond somewhat wryly, thinking not only of how he had pinned you down but also realizing the emotional context as well.

You both step out into the clear open night, the fresh air helping to calm your nerves. But a cigarette is what you really need.

You sit where you were last time, but you make sure there is a small amount of distance between you now, handing him a cigarette and your favorite lighter, watching him exhale smoke from the side of his mouth before taking one and lighting up yourself. You savor this moment, knowing it’s going to be last moment you have before everything changes.

Bucky saves you the trouble of figuring out where to start.

“So why’d you really bring me up here?” He looks over at you, his face illuminated by starlight.

_“To lead you to an overwhelming question…_

_Oh do not ask, ‘What is it?’_

_Let us go and make our visit”_

You turn away. A drag. And then an exhale. A silent wish for grey tendrils of smoke to carry you away.

“The truth is, I think about you a lot.” Pause.  “Because I wonder what it would be like if we were more than what we are now. Because I-” _because I’m in love with you_ “-have, because I feel, because I’ve fallen for you.” You confess slowly, carefully measuring your words.

Silence.

You continue.

“You don’t have to say anything, I know-” Sigh. “-know you don’t feel the same way. I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I’m sorry.”

More silence.

_“Among some talk of you and me,_

_Would it have been worth while,_

_To have bitten off the matter with a smile_

_To have squeezed the universe into a ball_

_To roll it toward some overwhelming question”_

A tear threatens to spill over onto your cheek. The first of many no doubt. As much as you told yourself it would never happen, there was always some small hope. There isn’t now. The cool numb of disappointment spreads over you as the silence stretches on, keeping your face tilted away.

_“And turning toward the window, should say:_

_‘That is not it at all,_

_That is not what I meant, at all.’”_

The silence is somehow worse than anything he could have said. You’re already mentally writing your resignation letter to give to Tony in the morning, knowing you can't stay after exposing yourself like this.

You move to get up. But he catches your wrist.

“Please, Bucky no, I don’t want to hear,” and this time you can’t keep your voice from cracking.

Gently, he takes your chin in his fingers and turns your face towards him, but you still avoid his gaze. It takes every ounce of will power not to keep the tears from streaming down your face.

“I want you to stay,” he says firmly.

An ember of hope relights, unwanted, unasked for, painfully within you.

_“I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;_

_I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker”_

“And I want to sit up here and look at the stars with you because it’s so much better than being trapped alone with my fucking mind. I want to carry you to your room, and I want to stay the night because sleeping next to you was the best I’ve slept in a long time.” Bucky finishes with a quiet finality.

Slowly, you lift your gaze, heart beating heavily.

“ _Do I dare_

_Disturb the universe?_

_In a minute there is time_

_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”_

Bucky’s blue eyes are shining with reflected moonlight and unrestrained emotion. Chastely you brush your lips against his as if you’re afraid he’ll vanish into thin air, but you need to know he’s real, this is real.

His lips respond to yours and you kiss gently, carefully; wanting to savor what you’ve waited so long for, desperately trying to absorb every sensation simultaneously to engrave in your memory forever—the tingle of your lips meeting, his thumb swiping delicately over your chin, the breeze, the lightness you feel, the weight, the weight is gone. Reaching a hand out tentatively to rest on his chest, he lifts you over to straddle his lap instead.

The kiss deepens steadily as you tentatively explore each others mouths, a gentle swiping of tongues and lips together. Hands each roaming the expanse of the other’s body, traveling experimentally over skin and clothes, curious to know the body underneath as time stretches uncounted into the night.

The reality of the situation comes crashing down on you in a wave of sensory overload, suddenly you’re overwhelming lightheaded. You separate your lips for the distance of a hair’s breadth, afraid the toxic combination of emotional catharsis and the taste of Bucky’s lips might actually cause you to faint.

But you don’t even have to say anything. Your eyes meet and Bucky knows.

He stands easily, even bearing your weight and you wrap instinctively around him, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

Bucky sets you down on the edge of your bed and you both begin to peel layers of clothing from each other. Hands reverently trailing over newly exposed flesh until you’ve both been stripped down to your most intimate layer of clothing.

You slide between the sheets together, strong arms enveloping you as your lips meet to say goodnight. In the sweet drought of sleep, you do not dream. For there is no longer any need.

 

 


	4. Intention-Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested an alternate ending with smut so here it is (I hope you like it :D)! Increase in rating from M to E. Rest of the chapter is the same, I decided to just repost the whole thing with the new ending integrated in. Thanks for all the comments!!

After the coffee shop intervention, you slowly integrate yourself back into a social atmosphere. You’re in the kitchen for breakfast the next morning when Steve comes in and gives you a small nod.

“It’s good to see you,” he says warmly.

A few other people come in. Bucky comes in. You and Bucky both immediately tense when you catch sight of each other, sharing a flat, uneasy expression for all of half a second and then proceeding to ignore each other. If Steve notices, he doesn’t say anything. You wonder if Bucky told him. Obviously he told Natasha about your little incident. You finish eating efficiently and leave.

A few days later, you have a sparring session with Sam, while Bucky lifts weights in the corner.

“Damn, girl, I really missed you kicking my ass,” Sam laughs getting up from the floor.

“You up for another round?” Bucky asks casually from somewhere behind you; your body freezes but your mind races.

You could easily say no, that you’re busy. That have something else to do. That you feel like you’ve pulled something and you shouldn’t exert yourself. But then he’ll know you’re specifically avoiding _him_. And besides landing a few hits might actually be a cathartic experience for the part of you that’s all pent up anger at what he’s unknowingly been putting you through.

“Sure,” you answer evenly, turning to face him.

You circle each other slowly, sizing each other up, until someone throws the first punch you’re not sure who, adrenaline causing you to only focus on the flurry of movement as you quickly exchange and block blows, neither of you managing to land anything. Bucky isn’t holding back because he knows you can take a hit, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The people you face in the real world don’t hold back, so why should a sparring session be any different. You manage to land a satisfying round house kick to that perfect jawline of his, but you’re a fraction of second too slow pulling away as Bucky catches your ankle, causing you to drop to the matted floor. You roll expertly out of the way and are back on your feet before he has a chance to pin you down.

You continue twisting and flipping out of Bucky’s reach, putting more and more effort behind your strikes. Distracted by the blue of his eyes and the curve of his lips as you let your frustration take over. But you’re starting tire from your previous session, so it isn’t long before his cybernetic fist makes contact with your ribs, knocking the air of out you, and he kicks you effortlessly into the padded wall behind you. You drop out of the way quickly as his flesh hand reaches for your throat, sweeping his legs out from under with a low kick and then you’re both rolling around on the floor until you don’t even realize he has you pinned and you’re still thrashing around desperate to get out of his grasp.

“Hey, hey!” Bucky says loudly, finally catching your attention causing you to go to still. And you really wish you hadn’t because now you’re all too aware of his enormous weight straddling your hips and both of your wrists trapped in the vice of his cybernetic hand as exchange body heat and ragged breath.

The faintest hint of concern present in his eyes as he gazes down at you, faces only separated by inches. A moment of quiet hangs between you. Your eyes fall to Bucky’s lips, thinking for not the first time what those lips would feel like against yours. The concern in Bucky’s gaze changes to something else as the moments stretch on, but you don’t have time to examine it because he’s letting you go now that he sees you’re calm.

“Not bad,” he throws out quietly over his shoulder before walking away.

You stare after his retreating form, feeling more conflicted than ever. In the beginning you swore to never reveal your feelings, but since talking to Natasha you want nothing more than to get them out of you as quickly as possible, just so it can be done. The sooner you get it over with, the sooner you can begin your climb out of this emotional hellscape and focus on moving forward.

You knock tentatively on Bucky’s door an absolute nervous wreck. It had taken you at least 10 times to make it this far. You’d make it to the elevator and then go back towards your room. And then once you managed to make it to his floor, you’d go back up in the elevator and then down again, like some kind of ridiculous farce. By the time you actually knock on the door it’s almost midnight.

_“And indeed there will be time_

_To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’_

_Time to turn back and descend the stair”_

You’re calculating if you have enough time to run away before he answers the door when the door cracks open. God, of course he’s shirtless, black sweatpants hung low on his hips. Like this isn’t the hardest thing you’ve already had to do.

“Oh, hey,” Bucky greets you somewhat indifferently.

“Uh, hey” you say, wetting your lips nervously, “so, I was going up to the roof. To smoke. And I don’t wanna smoke alone so um I didn’t know if you wanted to join me.” Your words come out in a rush, and your gaze mostly is glued to the floor. One second passes before you continue. “But I mean, no its okay, you probably don’t want to, okay, that’s fine. I’ll just go.” And as you’re whirling around on your heel, Bucky’s low voice stops you.

“No, s’okay, just give me a minute.” An under layer of fatigue present in his voice; a pang of remorse goes through you for probably waking him up or at least keeping him up at this point.

The door shuts. Flight instinct telling you this your chance to run for it, but reason roots you to the floor.

After what feels like an eternity the door reopens.

_“Let us go then, you and I,_

_When the evening is spread out against the sky”_

 Bucky wearing a grey t-shirt this time, and slip on sneakers. As you go up to the roof, you feel impossibly guilty. Bucky is probably have a perfectly fine night and you’re getting ready to ruin everything by dumping a bunch of emotional baggage on him. You don’t even notice the silence, too distracted by the noise in your head to make small talk.

“You know you actually got me pretty good, today.” He says rubbing his jaw.

“I think it’s fair to say you’re the one who got me pretty good,” you respond somewhat wryly, thinking not only of how he had pinned you down today but also in an emotional context.

You both step out into the clear open night, the fresh air helping to calm your nerves. But a cigarette is what you really need. The darkness seems welcoming with Bucky by your side.

You sit where you were last time, but you make sure there is a small amount of distance between you now, handing him a cigarette and your favorite lighter, watching him exhale smoke from the side of his mouth before taking one and lighting up yourself. You savor this moment, knowing it’s going to be last moment you have before everything changes.

Bucky saves you the trouble of figuring out where to start.

“So why’d you really bring me up here?” He looks over at you, his face illuminated by starlight.

_“To lead you to an overwhelming question…_

_Oh do not ask, ‘What is it?’_

_Let us go and make our visit”_

You turn away. A drag. And then an exhale. Wishing the grey tendrils of smoke would carry you away.

“The truth is, I think about you a lot.” Pause.  “Because I wonder what it would be like if we were more than what we are now. Because I-” _because I’m in love with you_ “-have, because I feel, because I’ve fallen for you.” You confess slowly, carefully measuring your words, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

Silence.

You continue.

“You don’t have to say anything, I know-” Sigh. “-know you don’t feel the same way. I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I’m sorry.”

More silence.

_“Among some talk of you and me,_

_Would it have been worth while,_

_To have bitten off the matter with a smile_

_To have squeezed the universe into a ball_

_To roll it toward some overwhelming question”_

A tear threatens to spill over onto your cheek. The first of many no doubt. As much as you told yourself it would never happen, there was always some small hope. There isn’t now. You feel the cool numb of disappointment spreading over you as the silence stretches on, keeping your face tilted away.

_“And turning toward the window, should say:_

_‘That is not it at all,_

_That is not what I meant, at all.’”_

The silence is somehow worse than anything he could have said. You’re already mentally writing your resignation letter to give to Tony in the morning. You have to leave. You’re never going to get out of this if you stay.

You move to get up. But he catches your wrist.

“Please, Bucky no, I don’t want to hear,” and this time you can’t keep your voice from cracking.

Gently, he takes your chin in his fingers and turns your face towards him, but you still avoid his gaze. It takes every ounce of will power not to keep the tears from streaming down your face.

“I want you to stay,” he says firmly.

An ember of hope relights, unwanted, unasked for, painfully within you.

_“I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;_

_I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker”_

“And I want to sit up here and look at the stars with you because it’s so much better than being trapped alone with my fucking mind. I want to carry you to your room, and I want to stay the night because sleeping next to you was the best I’ve slept in a long time.” Bucky finishes with a quiet finality.

Slowly, you lift your gaze, heart beating out of your chest.

“ _Do I dare_

_Disturb the universe?_

_In a minute there is time_

_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”_

 

Bucky’s blue eyes are shining with reflected moonlight and unrestrained emotion. Chastely you brush your lips against his as if you’re afraid he’ll vanish into thin air if you move too suddenly, because you need to know he’s real, this is real.

His lips respond to yours and you kiss gently, carefully; wanting to savor what you’ve waited so long for, desperately trying to absorb every sensation simultaneously to engrave in your memory forever—the tingle of your lips meeting, his thumb swiping delicately over your chin, the breeze, the lightness you feel, the weight, the weight is gone. Reaching a hand out tentatively to rest on his chest, he lifts you over to straddle his lap instead.

The kiss deepens steadily as you tentatively explore each other’s mouths, a gentle swiping of tongues and lips together. Hands each roaming the expanse of the other’s body, traveling experimentally over skin and clothes, curious to know the body underneath as time stretches uncounted into the night.

The reality of the situation comes crashing down on you in a wave of sensory overload, suddenly you’re overwhelming lightheaded. Your separate your lips for the distance of a hair’s breadth, afraid the toxic combination of emotional catharsis and the taste of Bucky’s lips might actually cause you to faint.

But you don’t even have to say anything. Bucky knows.

He stands easily, even bearing your weight and you wrap instinctively around him, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

Bucky sets you down on the edge of your bed and you both begin to peel layers of clothing from each other. Hands reverently trailing over newly exposed flesh until you’ve both been stripped down to your most intimate layer of clothing.

Bucky gently presses you back into the mattress, lips becoming acquainted with the sensitive column of your throat. Drawing airy moans and sighs from you. Cybernetic hand reaching around to caress the length of your spine before unhooking your bra. He eagerly dips down to explore your newly exposed cleavage, tongue flicking over your nipples while stroking you through damp panties.

You cant your hips up for more. More friction. More pressure. More Bucky. Your hand reaches for the cybernetic arm, drawing him back up.

“I don’t want to wait, Bucky, please.” You plead, the fear he’ll somehow vanish starting to eat away at you again.

“I’m not going anywhere, doll,” he reassures you, flesh fingertips slipping past the edge of your panties, teasing your entrance.

“I want all of you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss against the cool interlocking plates of the cybernetic arm.

Bucky’s eyes momentarily fall shut, processing the impact your words, kissing you thoroughly when they reopen as the cybernetic hand trades places with the flesh.

Two metallic fingers enter you fluidly and you cry out into the depths of his mouth. The chrome is impossibly smooth against your walls. It isn’t long before he adds a third, opening you up for him, withdrawing when you start to tighten.

Bucky gets off the bed to strip out of his boxers, cock hanging heavily between his legs.

He gets back on the bed, sitting on his knees, he draws you up and positions you over his lap, arms entwining around each other as you begin to sink down. Bucky tilts his head back, groaning lowly as you envelope more and more of his cock, peppering kisses along his exposed throat. You only make it so far before Bucky gently pushes in the rest of the way; you moan his name thickly as he bottoms out.

He leans back on his cybernetic arm and begins rolling his hips against yours, his impressive length stroking newly discovered places within you as you cling to him, high on the fact this is actually happening and better than you ever imagined.

Your hips move in time with his, two undulating, endless figures wrapped up in each other’s pleasure. You want it to last forever, but you’re already close since Bucky fingered you to the edge of orgasm. Walls beginning to spasm as his thrusts become more powerful. The base of his cock brushes against your clit and you come for what feels like eternity stretched out on his cock while he fucks you through it, only spilling with a bitten off noise when you’ve gone limp against him.

You slide between the sheets together, strong arms enveloping you as your lips meet to say goodnight. In the sweet drought of sleep, you do not dream. For there is no longer any need.

 


End file.
